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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28241604">The most interesting time of the year</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samari1/pseuds/Samari1'>Samari1</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Winter Holiday 2020 [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Mob, Assassin Clint Barton, Avenger Clint Barton, BAMF Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes is a smartass, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton is a Menace, Clint hates cops, Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, I mean really really hates them, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Protective Clint Barton, SHIELD Agent Clint Barton, Timeline What Timeline, age old argument New York or Chicago style pizza, to anyone that betrays him so they kinda deserve it?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 17:41:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,171</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28241604</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samari1/pseuds/Samari1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Clint realizes that the circus is going to be the death of him (literally), he runs. To survive, he makes the right sort of friends. Wrong sort? Ehh, friends that won't betray him. Winter proves to be the most interesting time of the year.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, Natasha Romanov/Original Character (background)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Winter Holiday 2020 [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2066625</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The most interesting time of the year</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Day 2 offering for the holidays! Hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Clint didn’t get the chance to sneak away very often. Barney seemed to watch him closer these days. Since he refused to actually kill people for no real reason - it was difficult enough to do the bad shit they already did - Clint knew his time was running out. Luckily, he’d managed to stash his backup bow, arrows, and fetching kit at the main bus station when they’d passed through Indianapolis. He’d also managed to stash one of the fake ID’s Barney had given him and a hundred bucks or so in cash and a change of clothes in the locker. It had hurt to cull out that much of his savings, but something told him that it’d be safer there. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He hated that itchy feeling he got more often than not these days. He’d not gotten much past eighth grade, but that didn’t mean Clint didn’t like to read. Barney made fun of him, so he usually found a second hand bookstore and picked up a couple of books, trading in the old ones. He picked up a book on survival basics and one just for fun. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint was passing their trailer, hoping he could stay out of sight a bit longer, when he heard Barney and Trick talking through the open window. He froze. They had to be talking pretty loud for his aids to pick the conversation up so clearly from this distance. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He needs to man up.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Barney sighed. “He’s getting there. Give him another chance.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You want to lose your spot because your punk brother doesn’t have the balls to kill? We don’t get paid as much when we don’t take the targets out.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint nearly snorted. His cut was always crap anyway. If they didn’t treat him like shit or ya know, not pay him for his fucking skills … well, they deserved what they got. And they thought he was the stupid one. Fat fucking chance. Idiots. He wasn’t going to kill some random person for a measly fifty bucks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll kill him myself if he doesn’t do what I tell him to. I swear it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He made a decision. Barney wanted to kill him, did he? Yeah. No. The last time they’d beaten him, he’d barely sweet talked his way out of the hospital and ducked the fucking cops. He wasn’t giving them another fucking chance.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint sent up a prayer to Gods he wasn’t sure he believed in for his foresight in carrying his savings in his backpack when he actually slipped away from their campsite and into town. Smiling, wryly, Clint crouched and stuck to the shadows. He ducked in the back of the tent where they kept their gear for shows. It didn’t take him long to pack his bow, arrows, and other assorted items. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Glancing out, he noted that it was almost dark and he sped up packing. He didn’t know why he folded up one of his flyers into the bag, usually they stuck them up around the towns the circus stopped in, but he didn’t remove it. A souvenir, he decided. Grabbing his knives, Clint tucked them away and hoisted the two duffels of gear, his backpack in place already. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t bother saying goodbye. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Before anyone noticed he was missing, he’d hitched a ride out of town. Three hours later, he caught a bus to Chicago. Tucking everything but the backpack (okay and three knives) into another locker, he made his way to the nearest shelter. It would suck, but it would also give him time. They thought him some soft kid. Clint usually liked being underestimated. It made life easier. The time had come to prove all of them wrong.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>—**—</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint lifted one brow, years of performing making it all too easy to hide how piss his pants scared he was. It had taken six months in the city to make the right sort of connections, well </span>
  <em>
    <span>the wrong sort</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but right for what he wanted.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The man - Vasily Melnyk; Boss of the Ukrainian mob that was attempting to get a foothold in Chicago - studied him with an impressive resting bitch face. Finally, he nodded. “You’ll do.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint allowed himself a pleased little smirk. Step one complete. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Underboss - Dimitri - motioned for Clint to follow. Knowing the drill, Clint waited until Vasily waved him off to actually follow Dimitri out of the room. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You certain?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint was surprised, but didn’t dare show it. “Exactly why would you doubt me?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hawkeye isn’t exactly something that will strike fear.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He laughed. “Exactly. Until I take them down from three buildings over and am gone before they even register they were taken out by a fuckin’ arrow.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dimitri grinned. “Fair point. The arrow is a … unique calling card.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I know. Believe me, I know.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>—**—</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint sighed. This job wasn’t one he could use his arrows on. Damn it all. He really hated getting bloody. Even in Chicago that raised a few eyebrows on the El. Okay, he amended, some nights and in some neighborhoods anyway. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Strolling across the parking garage, Clint smiled brightly. “Mr Walker?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The man looked up, clearly surprised. “Yes?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“They sent me after you. You paid for valet and this is not the correct area.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The man looked over at The Field Museum and the gala going on over there, laughing. “Sorry. Sorry. Here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint stepped forward, reaching out as if to take his keys and slid a knife between his ribs. Backing the dying man back towards his cute little convertible, Clint looked down and sighed. “Awww, blood, no.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Walker was wide-eyed, but the punctured lung was keeping him from making too much noise. Within minutes, Walker was back in the driver's seat and Clint was melting into the shadows. The CPD would be pissy when they found the throwing knife with a bullseye on it, but they had nothing to go on otherwise. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In fact, he thought, as he slipped through the shadows, they were convinced his work was tied to that criminal circus all the cops had a hard on for shutting down. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hopping into a small boat that would take him out into Lake Michigan and out of sight, Clint laughed, murmuring, “Who’s the idiot now?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>—**—</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kicked back, enjoying the news coverage of the notorious Trickshot being caught and charged with dozens of murders was just the sort of Saturday night Clint enjoyed most. The knock at the door was a surprise, his hand on his gun before he’d even thought about it. One thing about working for mobsters was that it paid, very very well and he could afford top of the line aids. He set his beer down and made his way over, staying out of the direct line of the door. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He tapped the screen and was utterly perplexed at the sight of Vasily and his two Lieutenants in the hallway. Not sure what the fuck was going on, he cautiously opened the door. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No trouble,” Vasily murmured, Clint translating easily enough after all these years. “The opposite.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Intrigued, Clint stepped back and allowed them inside. The three men had been saved a dozen times over because of Clint’s tendency towards paranoia. The Boss was his golden goose and Clint wasn’t stupid enough to leave said golden goose vulnerable. “Welcome?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He was being hugged in seconds, the shorter man laughing and patting him on the back hard enough to leave bruises. “You won’t be leaving us?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint extracted himself as quickly as possible. “Why would I?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alexi, one of the Lieutenants, pointed to the tv. “You said you’d stick around until you exacted your revenge. You did. Congratulations. I have vodka.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Laughing, Clint double checked the security before motioning for Vasily to take a seat. “I was a kid. I like the steady paycheck and knowledge that you won’t order me killed.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Vasily looked utterly appalled. “We are friends!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No one would believe you,” Clint joked. “But, yeah, we are. So,” he said, still cautious and confused, “You three are here to celebrate with me?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You hate the clubs.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You aren’t wrong. What else is there?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Vasily chuckled, holding out a tablet. “We stepped on some toes. Managed to catch us a prize. Or pick up a gift, not sure on that yet.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint took the tablet and then nearly dropped it. He’d heard rumors. Everyone in the underworld had. “You have got to be shitting me!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I am not.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint handed the tablet back. “I told you, I have lines that I won’t cross. That HYDRA bullshit is a very firm line, Vas.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Petro, the second Lieutenant, just sighed. “We think it is a peace offering.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It? That is a person!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Petro scowled. “Not what I meant. We think HYDRA feels he has outlived his usefulness to them. He’s very, very confused. Doesn’t even know his own name. The Winter Soldier is no more.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint leant on the back of the sofa. “And you believed that shit? Come on now.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We think that </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> is their way of making peace. You did kill a dozen of their operatives.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint shrugged. “So? Those sick fucks need to stay out of Chicago.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Which we have made very clear,” Vasily assured him. “Those trips you took to New York and L.A. seemed to have paid off quite nicely.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He was smirking now. “Boston, Indy, Vegas, and St. Louis didn’t help at all?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The man that was the closest thing to a friend that Clint had, just laughed until he cried. “Yes yes, you smug bastard, those helped too.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you want from me?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That was the big question. Clint had set out, all those years ago, to make a name for himself. To prove Barney and Trick wrong. Setting Trick up as a serial killer had been a later addition to his plan. He didn't consider himself a serial killer, he was just an assassin. The best in the fucking world, especially now that The Winter Soldier was out of commission. His only real competition was some female assassin that went by Widow that usually stuck to Europe. Which was fine and dandy with Clint. She could have her continent and he had his. It seemed to work well for all involved. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Talk to him.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint’s eyebrows shot up. “What the fuck for?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Vasily actually looked remorseful. “He cringes when any one of us talks. You have no accent. Okay, you do, but it is not like ours. Your eyes see more than most, Clint. We need those eyes.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ahh. Okay. “You want me to assess him? Like I did for the NYC guys last month?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Vasily nodded. “I would not have interrupted your celebration if it wasn’t time sensitive.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint waved off the comment. “You could have led with this, Vas. We’ve been friends long enough for you to know I don’t give a fuck about interruptions.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So you’ll talk to him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Clint grabbed his bow case. “Swing through a Starbucks on the way?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Vasily laughed. “Some things never change.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>--**--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You could be a mole.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The really too hot for Clint’s peace of mind brunet shrugged. “Could be. Might not be. Fuck if I know.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why shouldn’t we toss you on the street or leave you for the Feds?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you like killing people for a living?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint shrugged. “It pays the bills.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The tone was pure curiosity. “Would you kill me?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Threaten me and find out.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I like you. So, I’ll tell you what I remember of the past few months. Pain. That fucking Chair. The feeling of my brain being shredded. I was told I was no use to them, that they couldn’t be bothered to control me any longer. The words are gone.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What words?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The other man slowly recited eleven words in Russian. “The twelfth they left. I am compelled to write it down so you can kill me with it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint wasn’t a killer because he liked it. He was good at it. It paid well. He had dangerous associates that had, those first couple of years, been all too happy to run off his former circus associates if needed. Until he gained a reputation of his own. Trick would have already been given a ‘friendly’ warning in his cell since most of his crimes had been committed in Cook County. There was no risk of that bastard outing Clint as the real man behind the deaths. Trick was too much of a coward. He wouldn’t, unless this man proved to be too big of a risk, be using the last word. Still, he handed over a slip of paper and a small pencil. Both were slid back across the table moments later. Clint pocketed both after committing the word to memory. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t threaten me and mine and I won’t use that word.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The man tipped his head, the long fall of almost black hair falling over his face until one chocolate brown eye was all Clint could see. “You’re telling the truth.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint smirked. “I also am fully capable of killing you before you can blink.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The man laughed. “I really think I’m going to like you. What should I call you? Hawkeye would gain the wrong sort of attention, yes?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Clint. You are?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No fuckin’ clue.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Brooklyn.” At the puzzled look, Clint shrugged. “You sound like Brooklyn so that’s what you get until you either remember or pick something.” He stood. “Well? I know they gave you clothes so toss on some sort of heavy outerwear and lets get the fuck out of here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s it?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He wasn’t one for sharing secrets. It was an instinct he had, one that alerted him to trouble. Okay, so there were days he ended up heading right for the trouble instead of away from it. He had to make life interesting somehow. “For now. I want coffee and pizza. You’ll learn what a bastard I can be when I have to wait on either.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t call me Brooklyn,” the man grumbled, pulling on a dark blue winter coat that had been tossed over one of the chairs. “I don’t like it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hungry and wanting coffee, Clint rolled his eyes. “I was being nice. Fine. Snow it is.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Snow? Why?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s November in Chicago. There’s snow everywhere. Fuck if I know, I have to have something to fucking call you. Now, are you done bitching or should I put you out of my misery?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think that is how that saying goes.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint opened the door to the cell-like bunker, smirking. “Your bitching is making me miserable, so killing you makes me not so miserable. Made sense to me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The other man just groaned. “Fucks sake.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I hear that a lot.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>--**--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> pizza.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint laughed until his ribs hurt. He was a contrary fucker on the best of days. Thus Chicago style pizza for a man whose voice was pure Brooklyn. He had to get his kicks somewhere, right? “It is so. Said so on the building and on the box holding that pie.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It's … </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>! An </span>
  <em>
    <span>abomination</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Snow, my man, it’s pizza. Eat or go hungry.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Those gorgeous brown eyes narrowed, but Clint could do a damn good murder glare too and wasn’t terribly bothered. “Oh I’m eating, just lodging my complaint with the management.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Snickering, Clint poured them both another cup of coffee. “This place may look shifty on the outside, but it’s wired to alert the entire neighborhood with alarms so don’t try to sneak out. Chicago, even for you, isn’t hospitable. We’ve worked damn hard to get crime rates down.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Snow, since the man hadn’t picked another name, frowned. “You are mobsters.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint shrugged. “I just work for them.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No. No. Why would mobsters worry about keeping crime rates down?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint, having changed into jeans and a purple hoodie, grinned. “Look. The Family let crime run rampant. Feebs, CPD, and a few other alphabet agencies started looking too closely. Easier to do business when all eyes aren’t on the Windy City, yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Snow chuckled. “Makes sense in a fucked up way, I suppose. As much as anything in the past week has made sense.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You should write things down,” Clint suggested, eating his third slice of pizza. “Might help you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Can you call me something … not so stupid?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Told ya, figure something out. Spare room is on the second floor. Make yourself at home, I’ve got shit to do.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He left, knowing the other man probably wanted time to figure shit out too. He knew the guy had no intention of harming him, but that didn’t mean HYDRA wasn’t fucking with them all, his new roommate included. Laying his hand on the palm plate of his basement weapons room, Clint waited for the door to slide open and then immediately grabbed his collapsible bow and strapped a quiver to his right thigh. He made quick work of adding his holster and SIG Sauer 9. His throwing knives were also added. There was no sense in hiding any of it. Not where he was going. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The old smugglers tunnel got him out, the security locking with the small handheld remote, which went into the small zippered pocket inside the big hoodie pocket. He took a moment to be thankful for large paychecks and extensive connections which netted him the best gear. Life was so much more difficult in the early days. He certainly didn’t want to go back to that. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It didn’t take him long to reach the marina.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His sweet, sweet ride ran silently down the river (again with the best gear thanks) and he was able to make it from Chinatown to Lincoln Park in a fraction of the time it would have taken in a car. It was no surprise, after swapping the small boat for a motorcycle for the last leg of the trip, that Vasily was waiting for him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint remained standing, completely at ease but also itching to get out there and get answers. “He doesn’t like the local pizza.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Vasily chuckled. “Anything else?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He can’t remember shit and needs time. After that…” he just shrugged. “I haven’t had to say it in a decade or more, but if you think you can convince me to utilise the man like some sort of mindless weapon-”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know your rules and respect them. I’m not sure how he fits under your umbrella of vulnerable sorts not to be touched, but I respect our friendship and work relationship too much to push you on this.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alexi cleared his throat. “The guy looked like utter shit when we scooped him up. Refused Doc checking him over too.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t blame him,” Clint replied testily. “Toss some soldiers my way so I can sweep the city. We don’t need HYDRA here, Vas.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Calm down, I put the word out already. Even amongst our allies. </span>
  <em>
    <span>All </span>
  </em>
  <span>our allies.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Groaning, Clint rolled his eyes. “Fucks sake. You know my feelings about cops.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Shall I repeat your most common complaints?” Vasily laughed. “This is Chicago. The cops, at least some of them, get what we’re going for here. I know you ran into the same in New York.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He snorted. “Oh please, your associates in New York are definitely the lesser of the two evils. The NYPD is the most crooked organization I’ve ever seen.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>All three men laughed, but Clint knew it was because he wasn’t wrong. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>—**—</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint let himself in the same way he’d left. He’d not just left because he sure as fuck didn’t know what to do with the confused assassin. He genuinely had needed to touch base and make sure all of the hard work done to keep those Nazi fucks out of Chicago wasn’t going to go to waste. Consensus was - if you could call the sort of interrogation he and the soldiers assigned to him had performed as some sort of poll - HYDRA was indeed packing their shit and getting the fuck out of ChiTown. Good. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He locked up everything but his bow and a set of knives. His explosive arrow might blow the guy’s head off before he killed Clint, but it wasn’t guaranteed. It was to give him time, which sometimes was the best he could ask for. To his surprise, ‘Snow’ was sitting right where Clint had left him at the breakfast bar in his kitchen. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why trust me?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint shrugged, hoping the man hadn’t poisoned the pot of coffee and really, if he had okay well it was a relatively painless way to go. He poured himself a cup and turned, leaning his hip on the counter facing the dark haired man. “Did you find the notebooks?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you always ignore things you don’t want to discuss?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint downed what was left in his mug and twisted to grab the pot so he could refill his cup, grinning. “Just one of my many talents, Snow.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“James.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint’s brow lifted at the firm demand. “Alrighty then. James it is. So, the place pass muster?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re paranoid.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It ain’t paranoia if they really are out to get ya, pal.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James snickered. “Fair. Rough neighborhood.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Eh, it's a few steps up from Back of the Yards. Don’t knock it, the people are decent.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You could live in a better location. I was made well aware of you, your skills, and the cost of doing business with you. Not sure why they left that, to be honest.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint laughed so hard he had to set down his mug or risk spilling his coffee. Oh if James only knew. He only laughed harder at the incredulous look James was aiming his way. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>—**—</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So, I’m not on house arrest?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint snickered, glad he’d actually swallowed the coffee or else he’d have shot it out his nose. “You’ve been watching daytime television.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James blushed, looking far too adorable for Clint to handle this early and without his usual numerous pots of coffee. It had been almost three months since the start of their weird coexistence and thus far it was okay. James had nightmares, but thanks to his shitty hearing, Clint usually slept through those. Only when he was up one day due to his own did he find out about them. He didn’t miss the notebooks (no he didn’t go out and buy more and leave them around the house or anything, nope not him) were filling up slowly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You said stay in during the day.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“For your safety! We’ve done sweeps, but those fuckers are slippery bastards and could be back in town or have paid off someone to snatch you back when their ploy didn’t go their way.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James peeked up through criminally long eyelashes, a small smile on his face. “I am the most feared assassin on the planet, ya know.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And I’m now top dog since you are officially - for now - retired.” Smug, Clint just shrugged and pushed the bakery box of muffins across the counter. “You got your brain fried and need healing time.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>told</span>
  </em>
  <span> you they did something. I’ve not aged a day since fucking 1943!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re a grumpy fucker before breakfast. Eat.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Pot. Kettle.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Didn’t say I wasn’t. So, any reason in particular you want to go out or just feeling stir crazy?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James shrugged, blushing again. “Feels weird is all. You’ve shown me the neighborhood and all that shit, but …”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s thirty below out there, figured I was saving you a bit of misery.” It wasn’t a total lie. The weather was horrendous. Fucking Lake Effect Snow was the one thing he hated about Chicago. He also got that itchy feeling that told him trouble wasn’t far and he was doing what he could to protect James. It would get the other man's back up though. So Clint was trying to not be a little shit and poke at him for once. Just like he took the other man out around town after dark so there was less likelihood of anyone noticing the metal arm. Poor guy shouldn’t be snowed under with questions when he was still figuring shit out was all. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What else?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Fucks sake. He’d definitely not had enough coffee for this shit. “Some feds are sniffing around. Not alphabet assholes, but secret spy shit. That is easy enough because our pig pals won’t give over intel. As if we wouldn’t notice them moving in. Idiots.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James did that blink thing that Clint had learned meant something had triggered a memory. So, he sipped his coffee and waited. Okay, he downed three muffins too. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You really hate cops.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint shrugged, not feeling the least bit sorry about that. He knew there was something else, but out of respect he’d wait until James mentioned it. “Either they’re bastards or crooked bastards.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You need to warn your people.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint had his phone in hand seconds later. “Of what?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not phone or internet … nothing that can be tracked.” James actually looked wary. “Seriously. And, you’re right, I shouldn’t have left this place. At all. Probably should have stayed in that cell. They’re here for me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t care who the fuck they are. They can’t have you. Fucks sake.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James smiled. It was a rare thing to see. It did something to Clint that he wasn’t about to think about let alone act on. Nope. Not a chance. “You gonna protect me?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re a person not a prize to be won!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I think I understood that reference.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint smiled, but that feeling was back and ten times worse. Fuck. Just fuck. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“People like me -” A sigh. “We tend to disappear when they show up.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint froze. “Like you how?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Like me … and you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint turned the air blue for a good five minutes. “How good are they and why haven’t they hit my radar before now?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Good enough to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> hit your radar.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Okay the salty answer was his own fault. “U.S. based or they have a foothold everywhere?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was quiet for a few minutes. “Hmm. I suppose you could say they are the anti-HYDRA. That answer well enough?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint sank down on one of the stools and let his head ‘thud’ on the counter. “We have safe houses here. But, since you seem to know these people better I’ll take your lead on this. Stay and hide or get the fuck out and hide?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“They know we’re here, in this very building. I have no doubt they’ve scouted every exit. Yes, even the hidden one you use at night. Might be better if we just let them catch us. Working for them, even unwillingly, is better than HYDRA.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Just who the fuck are these guys?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“S.H.I.E.L.D.” James sighed, his hand coming to rest between Clint’s shoulders. It was more soothing than Clint had expected. “But, HYDRA left that intel in my head for a reason. Can’t know it’s not a trick.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint’s phone flashed and he reluctantly pulled it across the counter. The text was blunt: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve a job offer for both of you. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. No, Barton, that’s not a challenge or a dare. Same goes for you, Sarge. You have ten minutes. Nicholas J Fury</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well fuck. He was a Howlie. How the fuck is he still around?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sighing, Clint finally sat upright. “The easy way?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’m betting between us we can bust back out if needed.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Managing a snort, Clint stood, motioning for James to follow. “Might as well gear up. Fuck. I was just beginning to feel at home in Chicago.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>—**—</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Fifteen years later</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint winked, ducking in the smugglers tunnel with James and Nat trailing behind him. “For old times sake.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James slapped his hand on the panel, pushing up to steal a kiss. “Aww, doll, anytime you want to walk down memory lane, I’m game.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I agreed to spend the holidays with you two because you promised no sex in front of me. Remember that.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint laughed as the door slid open. “Awww, I think she means it this time. So much for us helping her escape Tony and Steve’s idea of family Christmas.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nat elbowed between them and marched into the safe room. “She was promised a traditional Ukrainian holiday and won’t hesitate to stab you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James’ groan and low muttering just made Clint laugh harder. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh god, are you certain we want Natalia and Vasily to meet? Can the world handle it? Will it bring on the apocalypse?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They made their way up into Clint’s old house from the safe room. It was hidden, thanks to Fury scrubbing the location all those years ago when they actually showed up to meet him instead of fighting the inevitable. Clint counted it the third best decision he’d ever made. Top one was bringing James home with him just over fifteen years ago. Second being his association and friendship with Vasily.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He and James didn’t make it here often, especially not since the Avengers became a thing. It looked as if the cleaning service Vas had hired had done a fair job of sprucing the place up though. “I promised an interesting Christmas, baby. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>didn’t put qualifications on that or even question me. Your fault.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re happy, that’s all that matters to me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not sure the promise of the ballet and symphony was good enough to endure you two saps.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“My feelings would be hurt if you weren’t my second favorite person in the world.” Clint looped his arm through hers, his tone teasing. “The promise of a drop dead gorgeous Ukrainian mob boss to bend to your wiles wasn’t enough on its own?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She side eyed him. “Hmm. We shall see. Did he truly convince an orthodox priest to marry the two of you and on Christmas Eve?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James had made his way over to the unlit tree by the window, fussing with the cords and finally getting it on. Clint grinned at the purple theme. Then he outright laughed when he realized all the decorations were weapons. Bows, arrows, guns, grenades, and what looked to be small blocks of C-4. Fuck, he’d missed Vas and his sense of humor. “He did indeed. It will be fun watching the two of you fighting for control of one another.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I will be too busy making sure neither of you walking disasters messes up your own wedding. This mob boss will have to wait his turn for my attention.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James had his serious face on, but his eyes were lit with glee. “Doll, if you tell me you’ve not had Dimitri stock a metric ton of popcorn, I might cry.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh he did!” Clint nearly sang. “This is gonna be the Christmas ever.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>--**--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Three days later, Clint watched from the head table at his wedding reception as Nat and Vas flirted outrageously. He leant over and kissed James’ cheek. “I was right, ya know. Best Christmas ever.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James didn’t argue, because Clint wasn’t wrong. All the best things in his life had happened this time of year after all. </span>
</p>
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